A Different Kind of Love
by Svenja The Strange
Summary: The five times people noticed and the one time John did. A collection of oneshots (some short, some longer) raising the issue of Johns endless dilemma of being deemed for Sherlocks' boyfriend. Kind of a 5 1. Beware the fluff!
1. Common Humor

**Summary:** The five times people noticed and the one time John did. A collection of oneshots (some very short, some longer) raising the issue of Johns endless dilemma of being deemed for Sherlocks' boyfriend.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything, sadly, and I don't make any money with it.

**Note:** Started as oneshot, turned out as 5+1 stories that are linked thematically. This is my first go at "Sherlock" so please don't be too cruel. If you intent to be cruel leave a review anyway. ;-) Also, I'm german. So be lenient with grammatical errors, my English might be a little rusty.

**1. Common Humor**

The blood was pumping through Johns veins, his pulse hammering violently in his head. His legs were starting to grow tired, his lungs were burning as he tried to snap for air and at the same time keep up the incredible speed the tall detective running in front of him had set. Once again he found himself wondering how on earth it was humanly possible for a person with Sherlocks eating, smoking and sleeping habits to be in such superb form and once again he dismissed the idea that, maybe, he wasn't human at all in favor of his own sanity. _It's the legs. Those damn giraffes' legs._ How was a person the estimated size of a Hobbit supposed to keep up with that?

"Sherlock!" John gasped, feeling his strength failing him. That slowed his friend down a notch even if only for a second.

"Keep running, John. They are right behind us and it must be just around the corner now!"

"You. Said. The same. Thing. Two. Minutes. ago!"

It was no good. Already Sherlock was picking up the pace again in front of him, speeding round corners, jumping fences and fudging cars. They had been going at this speed for about five minutes and other than his condition, the laceration (a hit in the face with the handle of a gun) was beginning to throb painfully. As always John had relied entirely on his friends plan as they had found themselves in a rather sticky situation with a more than displeased bunch of mobsters. Initiating one of their rehearsed diversionary tactics, Sherlock had managed to text Lestrade to bring backup and wait for them on the main street just around the corner.

_You bring the backup, we bring the mobsters. – SH_

John had felt like Bond for about half a minute. Then Sherlock had yelled "Run!" and now here they were.

The lean silhouette of Holmes had stopped in mid run and was gesturing lavishly for him to hurry up. Their meeting point with Lestrade was just around the bend. With that coat flapping in the cool night air and the collar turned up mysteriously in the dim, flickering neon lights of the back alley John couldn't help but think that the tall, dark detective would have been the perfect cast choice for a modern production of Dracula.

A bullet shooting past his ear and, hitting a trash bin right next to him nosily, brought him back to the precarious reality. He sucked in some more air, ground his teeth and mustered the last resorts of his powers to speed up and turn the corner together with Sherlock.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was grinning at them expectantly, ten police cars and at least twenty men with drawn guns in his back.

While John collapsed painfully on the pavement, Sherlock still had enough air in his lungs to name the exact location of the rest of the criminal bunch before he too bent over, hands on his thighs, gasping violently for air.

They remained in silence for a while, watching the spectacle in front of them, regaining their breaths. As he came back to his senses, John thought about the events of this evening that had started so peacefully. But being the friend and flat mate of Sherlock Holmes, you never knew what the evening would have in store for you. It was the rush of adrenaline maybe that made it all seem so funny, but suddenly he had to laugh. An amused chuckle at first, but looking over at Sherlock and seeing him grin from ear to ear too really cracked him up and they both laughed until their sides stung and their breath was gone all over again.

"I . can't. believe. You. Told. Them. Our. Names. Are. Starsky. And. Hutch!" John panted, cringing with the violent snorts at the memory of Sherlocks snappy reply as the mobster boss had asked them their names. It had earned John the laceration and Sherlock a bleeding nose.

"It was…" The normally so reserved detective was almost unable to answer. "It was the first thing that came to my head." And they roared with laughter again.

Across the Street Donovan nudged Anderson in the side.

"Look at them. You want to go over there and tell them to get a room." Donavan mumbled disapprovingly. Anderson replied with a meaningful raise of the eyebrows.

"It must be nice to have what they have. Someone that understands you so fully and with whom you can just laugh and laugh in the strangest of moments, I mean. It's a rare thing. I hope I find a person that just gets me like that one day too." A chubby female detective standing next to them commented, earning herself an irritated glare from both Anderson and Donovan. The two of them left, leaving her to stand alone. She watched the couple of men sitting closely together on the sidewalk across the street for a few more seconds. They had just survived a life-threatening chase through the streets, received a good beating (judging by the condition of their blood smeared faces) and were still sitting there, cracking with laughter. They seemed to miss out on the stress of the whole situation completely. It did not matter to them as long as they were both alive and next to each other. As long as they were laughing together.

"Yeah, someone to laugh with like that, that's the dream." She sighed and went back to work.


	2. Rhythmical Compatibility

**Discalimer:** Still don't own. :-(

**Note:** Hope you like this. Will be updating soon. The next few chapters need a bit of editing first.

**2. Rhythmical Compatibility**

The club was buzzing. A late Saturday night in one of Londons' hippest clubs was drawing to a loud, sweaty climax as a rousing techno song seduced hundreds of drunk young people to dance wantonly in the rapidly flickering colored lights on the dance floor. Once again, about the tenth time as John estimated roughly, he asked himself how the fuck Sherlock had managed to convince him to tag along to visit this particular place of research for a case, where John hovered at the bar, feeling decidedly old, tired and frumpish.

"Nothing?" he shouted over the booming bass line of the music, as a thick, black shock of hair appeared between the heads of the frantically dancing and moments later Sherlock pushed though the crowd to drop on the vacant chair next to John. They had spent the last hour looking for a young woman who was suspected to be cheating on her husband.

"_Boring_! Next." Was the first thing Sherlock had exclaimed as the said husband had declaimed his case in front of the consulting detective, standing in the living room of 221b Baker Street like a lost puppy. Boring or not, as John had spelled out for Sherlock, bills needed to be paid and the client was offering good money. The regret had come later. It was currently hammering in his brain in the form of an ear piercing beat.

"Why don't we call it a night? Seem like she's not here tonight!" John screamed over the noise. Sherlock just gave him a raised eyebrow.

"Even if this case is dull, tedious, _boring_, you made me take it and now the game is on. However drab and pedestrian."

John practically dumped half his pint in his throat (if this was going to take all night he might as well try to have some fun) and excused himself to find the bathroom. On coming back he found an altogether disturbing but not unfamiliar scene. Sherlock sitting at the bar stiffly, his untouched beer in front of him, and some sparsely dressed chick on Johns' seat, trying desperately to get the mysteriously dark strangers attention. How was the man doing that? John could spent the whole evening sitting at the bar with his nicest, most open _I'm a nice guy and would like to get to know you_-smile and still go home alone (he was at least passably attractive, wasn't he?) and Sherlock just needed to sulk around the place for a few minutes just to find himself surrounded by willing, bedazzled ladies. You'd find this phenomenon in the dictionary under: _Unfair, More than_.

It was tempting, the way Sherlock shot him significant _save-me_-glances through the room, to just let him on the tenterhook for a few more minutes. This whole evening had been his idea, anyway - John had suggested some good old monitoring like the police on TV usually did to catch the cheating wife. But then again, Sherlock might have found himself in the position of be driven to more drastic means and initiate one of his dreadful secret protocols that usually ended in pretended fist fights, mad chases though the streets of London or a night in a police cell. As flattered as John was that he was the only inaugurated person in all of Sherlocks protocols, he wasn't all that sure he wanted to risk one of those options for tonight.

"John, dear." Sherlock cried delightedly the moment John had approached earshot. "There you are."

The detectives' talent for acting had managed to stun John every single time he had been allowed to witness it. In a matter of seconds this rude, antisocial man could become the most lovable chap in the world, chatting animatedly, helping an old lady over the street, crying helplessly over a lost wallet whenever the situation called for a little disguise or diversion. In this particular play, a romantic comedy as John would soon have the misfortune to find out, John seemed to have been honored once more with the part of the second lead role. Therefore, and only therefore, he managed not to flinch with fright as Sherlock flung himself in his arms enthusiastically, tenderly embracing him and leading him over to the bar by his hand, a gesture of exaggerated affection.

"John, this young lady and I were just having the nicest chat. This is my boyfriend John." The last sentence was directed at her, rendered with the sweetest of smiles any human being could possibly be expected to muster.

"Um, hi." John said uncomfortably. Didn't this woman look familiar?

"Oh, so you two are together?" undisguised disappointment. The woman, a curvy blonde with a more than generous cleavage, touched Sherlocks arm and winked at him seductively. "If you change your mind, sexy, I'll be here the rest of the night." Then, leaning in on him and breathing directly into his ear: "It would be worth your time, I promise."

Sherlock lost control of his face for a split second, so short that only John was able to notice, but regained his composure quickly and grabbed John by the hand, pulling him out on the dance floor.

"What are you doing? Wait, I knew that woman. Wasn't that the clients' wife, the woman we were supposed to…"

"'Yes' to the first. 'Dancing' to the second." Came the short reply. They squeezed through the dancing crowd. John noticed that Sherlock made sure they were never out of sight of the blonde woman. The music was too loud to talk properly.

"Elaborate." He shortened his question, hoping it would earn him a satisfying reply. Instead of keeping it short, Sherlock started to dance friskily, moving to the beat quite skillfully as John noticed with curiosity. So, the play was still on. John decided to play along. Sherlock leaned forward and came so close to Johns ear, that he could feel the hot, moist breath of the other man on his neck. _Do I have to worry about the fact that I find that oddly pleasing?_

"That charming young lady who was just trying to lure me into her bed before you so chivalrously saved me from her vicious nymphomanic claws was indeed our clients' wife. Infidelity proven, I'd say. Now keep on dancing as though we are madly in love, I want to take some pictures of her and her next victim with my phone." Was he doing this on purpose, brushing his lips against Johns ear while talking? Like he'd said: damn good acting.

"Yeah, but do we have to dance so close? Like this it looks to people as though you're kissing my neck!"

Of course. At the exact same moment John voiced the words "kissing my neck" the DJ decided to turn the volume down and swap the deafening hammering of a techno beat to a languid, slow piece with an erotic James-Bond-like ring to it.

People were looking at them, cheering and whistling. _Yup, There goes the part about having fun. If anyone I know is present, I'm never going to be able to live this one down._

Sherlock, seeing the advantage in this attention, grabbed John by the waist, snuck a long, slender arms around him and started swaying and rocking rhythmically to the music, making sure to shower John with the most smoldering looks he could manage. They were _quite _smoldering.

"Come on, John. In the age of homosexual marriage and registered partnerships you can hardly be so conservative." Holmes winked wickedly.

And ever the obedient partner, John submitted to the movement and swayed along to the smooth music. He even went so far as to reach out one arm and wrap it casually around the taller mans neck, burying his hand in his soft curls and getting lost in the sweaty, hot sensation of bodies grinding against each other to the beat.

Letting down his guard for a second, John had to notice that he was even returning the raunchy, almost obscenely placid looks that were part of Sherlocks act. His heart actually skipped a beat, as his incredibly devoted actor, dance partner and best friend granted him a broad, playful smile. It almost made him believe this whole thing was more than an act. A game maybe, but not just an act.

"Got it?" John asked when he felt that the smile might be lingering just a moment longer than he was comfortable with.

"Actually, I think I do. Let's head out of here."

Heading for the entrance, Sherlock disappeared to grab their coats as Jon lingered in the entry area of the club.

"Heading home? What a pity!" the blonde woman was standing next to him, giving him a disapproving look from head to toe. John snorted. Her arrogance was making him angry. For a moment he considered rubbing her in the face how her husband would receive some compromising photos of her shortly. Instead he decided for an even lower yet somewhat less unprofessional move.

"You know he's just been acting to get away from you hitting on him, right? We're not actually together. Not even gay."

She didn't look surprised.

"Fooled me."

"Yeah, well. He's a good actor is all."

"Keep telling yourself that, Honey. But I tell you one thing: You may be able to fake a little sexiness. But when two people are so in sync when dancing, there is definitely something between them. You can't fake that kind of physical compatibility."

She shot him one of those condescending glances again then vanished into the crowd. John pondered this for a moment. When Sherlock returned he was grinning happily. The photos had probably already been texted. _Case closed_. He helped John into his coat like he usually did – after the events of the night that seemed an oddly intimate gesture – and pushed him out of the door with his hand pressed in the small of Johns back.

"Most boring case _ever_, but solved. Let's go home."


	3. Interworkability

**Interworkability**

"Lilac, John!" Holmes sonorous, deep voice boomed through the busy soundscape of the crime scene right before his slender, long legs appeared suddenly in Detective Inspector Greg Lestrades sight, hurrying towards where he an Dr. Watson were crouched on the floor next to the rather unsavory remains of a body. Moments later the detective was on his knees next to them, reaching out a hand and shaking his fair haired friends shoulder excitedly. He had that look on his face, Lestrade noticed. Psyched, frantic, _obsessed_ even.

"We've been so _stupid_! Lilac!" he repeated insistently, his hand still clutching Johns shoulder, nails digging in the fabric of his jumper visibly. The other man's expression reflected utter cluelessness as he stared at Sherlock Holmes, or '_the freak'_ as people around here liked to call him, open mouthed and round eyed for several moments. Then:

"Oh!" Within split seconds Johns expression changed from bewildered to enthusiastic. "Right, you mean the…" his words were cut off by zealous nodding. The two men grinned at each other conspiratorially.

"Clever! Clever, clever, clever!" Holmes shouted out, throwing his hand in the air in a fit of delighted passion.

Lestrade had that _left-out_-feeling again. Whenever he had the questionable honor to be working with consulting detective, sociopath and impossibly _fucking_ smug smart arse Sherlock Holmes, he felt he was missing out on pretty much everything that was going on as soon as Holmes had entered the room. John Watson appearing in Sherlocks life had obviously made that better – _not_. Working, living and doing god knows what together over the past years, they seemed to have developed some kind of secret language, full of gestures, looks and seemingly pointless expressions that no one but them could possibly understand. Like they were the only two member of some secret smart ass club, like they were the only two people in the room, like they were the only two people mattering. Standing on the outside looking in and _just not getting it_ could really make you feel like an idiot sometimes and Holmes was never short of an insult to remind you of that.

Currently Lestrade was busy trying to work out what the hell 'lilac' had to do with anything. Probably the smell of the killers soap on the crime scene, the colour of some fiber or _bloody_ pollen in the victims' nose hair. With Holmes you never knew. He just had that freakish perceptive faculty and a mind quicker than any person Lestrade had ever met. It bordered on the impossible that he seemed to have found another human being, a rather pleasant bloke with almost zero social awkwardness which was even more surprising, who actually appeared to be able to follow him, both intellectually and physically (at least most of the time). Not to mention putting up with his quirks as a flat mate. The few times Lestrade had visited Holmes flat, he had come across body parts in the fridge, gunshot holes in the walls, obscure, yellowish stains on the ceiling and the carpet and an unashamedly naked Sherlock lounging on the couch even though Watson was sitting right next to him in his armchair, appearing to be reading the paper. Then again, the latter might well have been one of the frequently discussed hints as to whether the two of them were actually shagging or not. Although Watson did not strike Lestrade as particularly gay (and Holmes seemed just outright asexual, to be frank), he would have bet fifty quids they were.

While Lestrade was still pondering vaguely over the last part, Holmes and Watson had leaped up from the floor and exchanged some more incomplete, incoherent rambling and had started to head straight for the door.

"Wait! What - Where are you going?"

Holmes disdainful grey eyes fixed him coldly, his lips contorted to a condescending smirk.

"We know who the killer is. Give me five minutes, I'll text you the address."

Lestrades gaze shifted from Holmes to Watson, who was lingering in the doorway, fidgeting impatiently. He knew better than to ask for the meaning of 'lilac' in Sherlocks deductions now.

"And you got that? Just because he said 'lilac'? he asked Watson instead, immediately ruing his decision to be so bold as to ask anything at all.

"_verbum sat sapienti est_." The tall detective quoted with a wink. "'A word to the wise is sufficient'. As I have had the misfortune to learn, for the idiots not even a whole speech suffices." An apologetically raised eyebrow from Watson and they were out of the door, leaving a flabbergasted Lestrade and a whole room of Yarders with slightly irritated expressions.

"Definitely shagging." Lestrade heard one of his colleagues mutter to another under his breath. Whatever they had, whatever strange, unusual kind of relationship, they were surely working together like two parts of a well oiled machine. They clicked, they worked, they succeeded and the results almost always made up for all the trouble.


	4. Physical Attraction

**Physical Attraction**

Glittering raindrops ran down melancholically on the outside of the window as a steady, cold rain was beating down on a grey Saturday afternoon in November. John Watson peered out skeptically, currently weighing up the disadvantages of a trip to the grocery shop in such weather against the disadvantages of skipping dinner and going to bed with a growling stomach.

"Can I make you a cup of tea, dear?"

"Ah, yes. Thanks Mrs. Hudson." John replied, thankfully. "And thanks for doing the laundry."

The elderly ladies head appeared in the kitchen door, a clement smile on her face.

"It was just this once. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

John checked his phone for messages, considering for a moment to text Sherlock and tell him to bring in something to eat for later, but the sound of self-confident steps coming up the stairs of the house announced the arrival of the same person whose silhouette now loomed behind the milky glass of the flats door for a moment before the door burst open and Sherlock appeared. John often wondered if Sherlock had tampered with the lighting in the hall purposely to grant him this dramatic effect on entering. He rolled his eyes, amused and appalled to equal parts, as he took in the sight of the somewhat wet and sullen figure, covered in rain and dark brown mud from head to toe. In his hand he held a shovel.

Happy to see his best friend home, it took John a moment to realize the full extent of the taller mans state. He was out of his coat, _unusual_, his shirt was not just dirty but also torn, _suspicious_, and he was so soaked that his shirt clung to his lean upper body like a second skin. _Unhealthy_. In the silence a drop could be heard, falling from the tip of the detectives' long nose and hitting the wooden floor of the room audibly.

"That was _dull_." The usual nonchalance in his voice suffered slightly as his body betrayed the detached statement with a violent chattering of teeth.

"Christ, Sherlock! What happened?"

"Don't want to talk about it. Had to leave coat behind. Money in it. Hence: walk."

"Where the fuck were you? How… What..-" But whenever Holmes used the term 'I don't want to talk about it', John knew, it was best to leave the matter alone. He had learned that the hard way several times. Besides, after the first shock, the symptoms of his helper's syndrome kicked in, _hard,_ as always when his best friend and flat mate had gotten himself into health damaging trouble.

"Mrs. Hudson, tea for Sherlock too, and quickly. And you: out of the wet clothes. Now." Sometimes John felt like a single mom, caring for a kid with special needs. At least he presumed that this what single moms felt like. One time he had even doctored Sherlock with a patch with dinosaurs on it. To be fair, Sherlock hadn't insisted on the dinosaurs, he hadn't even felt the need to be patched up in the first place. But sometimes John just had to compel the man to his own happiness.

He helped the violently shivering Sherlock to handle the buttons on his shirt. _What this must look like again. Mrs. Hudson will love the sight of this._ He had never been able to fully convince the woman that they weren't a couple. John rolled his eyes. First a wet shirt hit the floor, followed by a pair of pants and Boxers and within minutes John had Sherlock wrapped up in a blanket, telling himself that having his naked friend next to him was not at all awkward. Not awkward, _at all_. As Mrs. Hudson brought the tea, John was just tugging at the blanket, making sure it covered the now slightly less paralyzed detectives neck properly.

"I don't want you to catch a cold. You're insufferable when you're ill." He hurried to add to his actions so that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't get the wrong idea. She gave them a touched smile anyway. Now that he'd said it out loud it kind of sounded like the playful teasing of a vlover and he rolled his eyes again at the realization. To get away from the uncomfortableness of the situation, John went to grab a towel from the bathroom and found Sherlock in a slightly more talkative state.

"Well, that was hardly worth the effort. Apparently next time I want to exhume a body I will have to get a permit." He spit out the last words as though they were a slimy insect that had flown in his mouth to die there. "Or they'll arrest me." raised eyebrows, undoubtedly mimicking the voice of the security person who had informed him of this.

"You wanted to exhume a body." This was more of an unbelieving statement than a question, because John had learned over time that Sherlock did not react very well to the question "why?" whenever one of his sinister experiments was concerned. He probably just 'needed to know' something very badly.

"_Obviously._"

John walked over to the huddled up bundle on the couch, whose head was leaning against the armrest in front of John, large, naked feet sticking out of the blanket and over the armrest on the other side. For a moment he considered throwing the towel at Sherlock, like he had usually intended to do, but then that wet, luscious shock of dark curls just seemed too inviting. With Mrs. Hudson evidently out of the flat, he risked it. Even through the fabric of the towel they felt soft and thick.

Sherlock endured the gesture without protest. Then again, he had always been the one who seemed to be fine with making physical contact that was not usually observed in two best friends, even if they were living together. _He probably just doesn't know_. John had thought in the beginning_. He's so awkward around people, he doesn't know that touching follows certain rules and can cross boundaries_. But he had noticed soon that Sherlock hardly ever touched anyone else. Just him. With him it was always small touches on the arms, helping him into his coat, touching Johns temples in the desperate attempt to make him think faster or even just coming inappropriately close with his face while speaking. It had bewildered John at first, but he had gotten used. And now, sometimes when there had been no case for Sherlock in days and John was working and Sherlock was busy not letting the boredom destroy the last of his sanity, John found that he _missed_ their closeness more and more frequently. Of course, he'd never confess that to anyone, least of all to Sherlock.

"Oh, look at you! Practically domestic."

_Yeah, great_.

"I'm just… I was just…" _Oh, fuck it. I'll never get the idea out of her head anyway_. He decided to let it go.

Several hours later everything was back to fairly normal. To Johns relieve, Sherlock had, at least partly, dressed in pyjama pants and his blue dressing gown. They were loitering on the couch, stuffing themselves with ordered Chinese food. John always enjoyed seeing Sherlock eat, because it calmed him to see that firstly: the man was actually human and needed to do human things every now and then, and secondly: he fulfilled these human needs. Seeing him going for days without food always troubled him somehow. _Damn helpers' syndrome_.

For about the tenth time since Sherlocks dramatic entrance earlier that day Mrs. Hudson bustled in to "check" if Sherlock was alright. John was pretty sure she was just doing it to see if anything more would happen between the two of them and Sherlock had told her to mind her own business rather rudely for several times. Still, she kept finding excuses to hover about the room every hour or so.

"I think I'll be off to bed." John announced during her latest visit, hoping he could bring her speculations to an end that way. At least for tonight.

"Yeah, probably for the best. Might as well catch up on some sleep."

John silently checked his friends' forehead for any sign of a fever when he thought Mrs. Hudson wasn't looking. There was a strange look on Sherlocks face as he endured the mothering gesture.

As John got up and started to clear away the remains of tonights dinner, Sherlock gently touched his shoulder as he tried to push past him. In the kitchen he did it again, carefully, almost imperceptibly laying his hand between Johns shoulder blades as he was brushing past him into his room.

"Good night. And, um, thanks for the… well, you know." Holmes ways of saying thanks for Johns taking care were always stuttered and a little akward, even after all these years.

"Night."

Moments of silence as John threw the empty food containers in the trash bin. Mrs. Hudson was still looming in the living room, curiously prying at him from a distance.

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson." John called meaningfully. Instead of going away, she came closer.

"You know, dear, I don't see why you're being so stubborn about this. It's really quite obvious, with all the touching. You know how he is. He never really likes to touch anyone, but it's different with you. Sometimes when both of you are at home, it's almost like a dance, so nice to watch. You waltz around each other in the room, trying to avoid it, but coming together again and again without even really noticing. It is as though you have some kind of physical attraction neither of you can resist. Like magnet poles or something. You should really just man up and do something about that."

"Um, thanks, Mrs. Hudson." It was all he could find in his head to reply.

"Good night, dear. You think on it." She told him, smiling at him compassionately as though saying 'you'll figure it out eventually' and left.


	5. Romantic Affection

**5. Romantic Affection**

Johns date was out of his league. _Way_ out of his league. In fact, she was so far out of his league that he had been shocked rather than delightedly surprised when she had agreed to go out on a date with him. Intellectually they were on quite equal footing, but as far as physical attractiveness was concerned he still couldn't bring himself to believe his luck as he was leading beautiful, glorious Josephine up the stairs of 221b Baker Street and into the hopefully empty living room he shared with the worlds only consulting detective, best friend and high functioning sociopath Sherlock Holmes.

Josephine and John had taken a few drinks in the bar just around the corner from Baker Street until, after an evening full of pleasant conversation, laughter and flirting, she had suggested having a coffee before she went home. His place. _Wow_.

"Sure, why not?"

_Fuck_. The second the words hat escaped his mouth he had regretted them already. _Why not? Because you are living with the worlds' most insensitive, rude and socially awkward bloke in possibly all the world._ But as they slowly ascended the narrow stairs, quietly giggling at some joke they had just shared, the utter silence of the place gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock was out. Solving a case, conducting an experiment, ruining someones day, anyones day. Hopefully not his day.

As he opened the door, gallantly gesturing for Josephine to enter, his hopes were crushed with one look into the dimly lit room. Sprawled out limply on the couch, long, skinny legs hanging over the armrest, a certain scarcely dressed sociopath was staring at the ceiling with a frantic gaze, fingers pressed into his temples.

John stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed Josephines shoulder impulsively. Maybe he hasn't noticed us yet, he seems rather focused. _Don't be ridiculous, John. He never not notices._

"John, brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly and shot up straight as an arrow. _Ridiculous_. "Where have you been all night? I texted you. Six times. I need you. I need you for an experiment." Without even so much as looking at John (and completely ignoring the presence of his date), Sherlock rushed past him, beginning to grub about in the kitchen drawers frantically, sending objects flying all through the room.

"Um, Jospehine, this is Sherlock, my flat mate. Sherlock, this is Jospehine. My _date._" He made sure to give the word _date_ as much weighty undertone as possible, lingering on the t somewhat longer to ensure that Sherlock had gotten the message. If he had – and John was pretty damn certain he had- he was ignoring any of the hidden meaning expressed.

"I need you for an experiment." Holmes simply repeated as though he had not heard Johns voice at all and as though he had forgotten he had just said the exact same thing moments ago.

"Yes, but I am on a date. We were hoping we could have a cuppa. In _private_." Again with the subtext.

Though subtext was something that Sherlock usually never missed out on, his only answer was the rumbling and crashing as he kept rummaging through the kitchen for several moments, now and then accompanied by low mumbled words. John turned towards Josephine, shrugging apologetically.

"Ah! In know where it is!" Sherlocks exclamation cut through any kind of excuse John had considered uttering to the somewhat puzzled girl standing next to him wordlessly. More rumbling. "It must be here. I need you to take your shirt off and take two, I repeat: only two, of the small green pills on the couch table over there. You don't have any kind of heart disease? _Stupid_. I know you don't. Sit down, take the pill. I need to measure the rate of increase in sweating of the human body under the influence of this new party drug. It's basically just Amphetamine with a few additional substances, nothing fancy. But I _need to know_, and Mrs. Hudson just wouldn't cooperate. Ah! Got it."

"No, Sherlock. No! I told you earlier today that I was taking the night off. I am on a _date_." Really, why was he even bothering to highlight certain important words in his sentences by putting emphasis on them if Sherlock was determined not to hear any of it? He gestured vaguely into the direction of Josephine, who was leaning back against the door frame now, looking a little unsure. _Probably considering whether to make a run for it or to call the police first_. Lestrade would undoubtedly love to take that call.

"Irrelevant!" Sherlocks slightly disheveled black curls appeared in the frame of the kitchen door, His right hand held a huge cleaver, in the left he was clutching a bundle of obscure red cable. His voice had an alarming ring of indignation to it that told John he had absolutely understood how serious he was about this but did not at all agree on the importance. "I _need_ to know. Seriously, John. _Priorities._"

_Great._ Just about when this date was starting to get really interesting, Sherlock had to interfere. There was no way Josephine would be staying for coffee now. While Sherlocks lean silhouette disappeared into the kitchen again - to do some more drawer archeology judging by the sound of it – John finally remembered his manners and turned around to Josephine, finding, to his absolute surprise, that the delicate small strawberry lips were stretched into a wry grin.

"So, that's your infamous flat mate? Interesting. Does he frequently ask you to undress and take dubious party drugs?" she winked conspiratorially.

"Um… not frequently, no. But definitely more often than I am comfortable with." He laughed, relieved. "Maybe I can convince him I'm not going to be part of his experiments this time. What do you think, are we still on for this cup of coffee?"

"You're still in your shirt, John!" Sherlock had reappeared, still holding the red cable but he had swapped the cleaver for a volumetric pipette which made John relax a little.

"Why don't you just take the green pills yourself?" Josephine inserted forwardly, causing the frantically moving Sherlock to stop and look at her for the first time since they had entered the room. _Oh-oh_. John knew that look better than he wished. Within seconds Sherlock let his gaze wander from the tip of her expensive High Heels (pale blue silk, open at the front, a neatly polished toenail sticking out, John noticed) to the top of her pretty head (shiny, luscious dark hair, rose scented shampoo, expensive smell), making mental notes, mapping her, putting together details to complete a picture he was likely to share any moment now. _Oh boy, here we go_.

"And who, pray tell, are you? Although I don't really need to ask. Firstly because I don't actually care that much, secondly because you've already told me. Academic_, obviously_. Linguist or Historian, I presume, working for the University of London. You live alone with a cat, tortoiseshell. Married before, but he's dead so you're a bit desperate to find love again. That's probably the reason why you have agreed to go on a date with someone so clearly beneath your own level of physical attractiveness. As to the drugs you have so quick-wittedly suggest I take myself, I had already thought of that myself, thank you, but I can hardly rely on the conclusiveness of the results one just one test object, especially not since – John being unavailable and not answering my texts - I had to measure the outcome under drug influence myself." Significant glance in Johns direction. "Nice that we had the opportunity to clear that up. Sherlock Holmes. And you must be Johns _date_." The last words again to John, mimicking the exact same tone he had used earlier with raised eyebrows and his patented _Now, can we get on with this?-_look.

"Wow. You told me he was observant. Bit of an understatement, don't you think?"

"You wouldn't have believed me anyway, would you?" John replied dryly and answered Sherlocks smug grin with his _Stop showing off_-scold.

"Listen, if you don't want to stay we could always just head out and grab a coffee somewhere else, or got to your place."

"No, that's fine. How about you talk to your friend about his experiment and I see if I can find my way around in your kitchen well enough to make us a cup. For you too, Sherlock?"

"No, thank you." The tall dark haired man had already lost interest in her presence and had headed over to the couch table while attempting to unwind the knot of cable in his hand, gradually extracting a disturbing number of small electrodes from the bundle. He didn't even look up.

John watched baffled as Josephine vanished into the kitchen, seeming blissfully unimpressed by Sherlocks rather rude deductions about her person and his usually more deterring general… well, _Sherlockness_. She even took the opportunity to gently touch Johns lower back while passing him in the narrow space of the flats door they had both still been standing in until this moment. Should he really have the luck to have found a girl who was not totally put off by the way of his flat mate, and – to be honest to himself – best and only real friend in the world? The possibility cheered him up to such an extent, that he spontaneously dismissed the idea of punching the detective in the face for ruining this particular evening and went over to the couch, where Sherlock was still fidgeting with the red cable.

The moment John had taken a seat Sherlocks attention shifted from the objects in his hands to the man next to him and without any further explanation or inquiry for permission started to unbutton Johns shirt with long, slender fingers.

_Slow, now. Pissing him off with a strong reaction will only encourage him._

"Sherlock, please stop that_._"

"John, we've been over this. I am not trying to approach you with any kind of hidden sexual agenda, I am merely…" John slapped Sherlocks hand that was still nimbly working his buttons.

"Um, guys? Did you know that there is something in the filter container of your coffee machine that looks like dead mice? Smells like dead mice too."

Josphines voice seemed alarmed now rather than vaguely amused at the quirky experiments that seemed to be going on in this flat. _Dear lord, how much will she be able to take?_ Even the most tolerant woman would have to have enough at some point. It was a good thing she hadn't emerged from the kitchen yet to find the two men huddled on the couch, one of them trying to undress the other. At least her remark had caught Sherlocks attention, causing him to stop his inadequate activities and shoot up straight from the couch.

"Don't touch those. They are in there for a reason!"

"Why don't you just try and make us some tea?" John proposed. Yeah, as if tea was going to save the situation. And, god, he hoped there would not be anything dead in the tea pot as well. It was not at all unlikely.

"O.k."

Mentally apparently back to John and the rate of his sweat increase, Sherlock now busied himself with delving in the books, gadgets and objects on the couch table in obvious pursuit of the aforementioned green pills.

"Exactly how many of the pills have _you_ taken, then, that you were so specific about how many you want me to take."

"The second time only two. I learned that three were 'a little not so good' the hard way this morning."

John was speechless.

"You took five of those in _one day_?" Now it was him who was initiating indecently close physical contact, pulling Sherlock back on the couch with him, putting a hand on his forehead rather unceremoniously and coming very close to his face, pulling his eyelids up to get a better look at the state of his pupils.

"You probably haven't eaten all day either, have you? Will you stop that crap with the electrodes?"

Once Sherlock had been caught up in the idea of probing some absurd issue it was hard enough to get him to calm down. Trying to do so when he was high as a kite on Amphetamine was almost impossible. The stranger it was that as soon as John had forced Sherlock back on the couch in order to get him to lie down, the tall detectives' body went limp and docile. _Unexpected. Unusual. Atypical even._

"Don't worry. Although I have to admit I had a rather strenuous morning – hence the recommendation to take no more than two pills – I made sure the active agent was fairly out of my system before I took the next two. I should be fine in two to three hours the latest." John did not forego checking Sherlocks pulse under the collar of his shirt. "I like your hands. They calm me."

This confession startled John but he could not quite bring himself to dismiss it as mere drug talk. Sherlock had seemed in his right mind before, after all. Also, these kind of revelations weren't something Sherlock usually shared and it was just too damn flattering. It made John feel a little warm in the pit of his stomach, as he noticed nervously. _Wait, why was that?_

Without even thinking about it his hand, again resting on Sherlocks forehead to check his temperature a second time, was brushing away gently some of those stubborn dark curls.

"Is he alright?"

Oops. He had forgotten all about Jospehine, who had come forward from the kitchen, a tea tin in hand, and was now standing in the living room looking equally bewildered and concerned.

"Oh, ah, yeah. I think so. He does have a deal of experience with situations like this." _So do I, speaking of that._

"Look, John. I don't know what's in this tin, but it doesn't smell like tea. I don't think we'll be able to enjoy a hot beverage of any kind tonight. I think I'd better go. It looks like you have doctors work to do anyway." _Ok, she definitely saw that last part with the hair_. To Johns surprise she didn't look angry when she grabbed for her coat she had taken off in the kitchen.

"No, wait! I just have to…"

"Don't be silly, John." Sherlock mumbled, obviously close to dozing off now, cable and electrodes still in hand. "You wouldn't have scored tonight anyway. She has her period."

"SHERLOCK!" As if the situation hadn't been awkward enough already this inappropriate comment had made the strain in the room almost unbearable. Sherlocks words had also seemed to be the boundary of Josephines tolerance. John could see her mouthing an irritated "O.K", as she tuned to the door and left with a crisp. "Thanks for the evening John. Good night!"

John chastised Sherlock with an enraged glance and a short but hearty kick to the shin and followed Josephine, who had just reached the bottom of the stairs and was about to leave the building.

"I'm sorry." He shouted after her and caused her to linger in the doorway. "I am really so very sorry."

Again she took John totally by surprise when she gave him a shrug and an understanding grin.

"It's okay, John, it's fine. I understand. You obviously already have a special person in your life and I don't want to come in between."

_Great._ Now even the girls he was going out with were starting to believe he was gay. He had told Sherlock that night besides the swimming pool they had to be more careful. Apparently they had not done a very good job.

"I'm not gay!" was everything he managed to exclaim in exasperation, throwing his arms in the air helplessly to emphasize his point. Really, this particular protestation was getting old.

Josephine let out a sigh.

"I know. My radar is usually pretty accurate and I don't get that vibe from you at all. I believe you. But I want you to listen to me: We don't know each other very well, but I could tell from the ten minutes I was up there with the two of you that we are not looking for the same thing. Because I am looking for love. Real, true, honest love. And you are not, because you've already found it. Now, I know you say you're interested in women, but here is something that might be new to you: Love doesn't care. When you meet that one person who belongs to you, your "soul mate" if you will, love doesn't care whether it's a man or a woman, whether the person is younger or older or more attractive or less attractive or whatever you though the person might be or should be."

"I'm not in love with him." John mumbled weakly. "Why do I have to keep telling people that? There's nothing romantic between the two of us."

"Oh, but I think there is. It was very romantic, the way he needed to draw your attention away from me tonight and the way you cared for him. It may be nothing sexual, but you love him. Platonically, romantically, brotherly – whatever you want to call it, if you feel the need to lable it at all. The most important part though, is that you have already found your significant other and there will never be room for anyone else." Without another word, she stepped forward and brushed a soft, lingering, rose scented kiss on Johns cheek before turning and closing the door behind her, leaving a confused John standing in the dark hallway.


	6. A Different Kind of Love

**+ 1. A Different Kind of Love**

Thick, and soft the snow was slowly floating against the dark evening sky, covering the roofs and streets like a fluffy white blanket, muffling the familiar city sounds as John Watson slowly strolled home from a last minute Christmas shopping tour. He realized he couldn't actually remember the last time it had snowed at Christmas, pleased. _What a strangely romantic look a layer of frozen, crystallized water can give the same old places you usually pass by every day_, he noticed. Like the world was a delicious cake covered in whipped cream.

As John approached 221b, he noticed the sound of a skillfully played violin softly melting into the silence of the street distributing an idyllic yet somehow very melancholic atmosphere. It did not take John the deductive skills of a Holmes to conclude whose masterful hands were eliciting so delicate a melody from his violin, especially not as soon as he had spotted the elegant, slender silhouette black against the curtains in the dimly lit window on the first floor of 221b. He smiled and stood for several moments, watching the figure at the window sway with the music, wistfully leaning into every stroke of the bow and passionately rocking his head along with the rhythm. It was almost unbelievable that a man who prided himself with being the worlds' most uninvolved, emotionally detached bugger could produce something so touching and sentimental. Then again, over the years of living with Sherlock, John had been able to peek through that hard shell of indifference and condescending nonchalance to catch a glimpse of the soft core beneath. It was more than just a pleasant surprise to see there actually _was_ a soft core (not at all likely at first glance) and it certainly honored John that he seemed to be the only person Sherlock trusted enough to let him see it from time to time. It made him feel special, even, at times, _loved_.

As the complex melody of the violin stretched on, John crossed the street and entered the house, leaving the warm, orange glow of the snowy street behind and swapping it for the dark but pleasantly heated atmosphere of the hall. Mrs. Hudson was sitting in her kitchen with the door open so she could listen to Sherlock playing like she sometimes did. He waved her a short greeting.

The music got louder as he climbed the stairs and yet again John found himself lingering where he was, undecided whether to enter the flat in fear of disturbing the beautiful playing, afraid Sherlock might stop and put his instrument aside for the evening. Instead John pushed the door open slightly to get a better view on the dark clad, tall figure that stood by the window with his back turned against the room and lost himself in the sound. The piece was full of melancholic harmonies and occasional dissonances in minor that dissolved into beautiful major tone runs. The driving, steady rhythm and languid melody, were so full of deep, almost painful longing that it touched something in John chest and left him so enticed that he forgot to breathe. At the point where an electrifying climax of notes melted softly into the main theme of the piece, John actually found himself incapable of holding back the tears that had begun to well up.

Of course, being the creepy, mind-reading genius he was, Sherlock chose this exact same moment to turn around and greet him with an arrogant smile and a flourish of his bow, without ever stopping to play. John sometimes wondered if the bastard was secretly a student under Professor X at the mutant academy from that ridiculous X-Men film he had seen on tv some time ago.

"Hi." John grinned forcedly and turned to the kitchen quickly, trying to dry the glaze from his eyes without the detective noticing. _Yeah, as if that could ever happen_.

"I brought us a few nice steaks for dinner and a few bottles of wine. I know you don't care for Christmas, but I thought it would be nice to have something other than take away for once." He called over a now softer, calmer passage of the music piece. "What you're playing is, um, very nice. Beautiful." He commented, trying to sound as casual and nonchalant as he could manage, both wanting to acknowledge Sherlocks skills while at the same time not giving away how deeply it had really moved him.

"You really think so?" the tall mans' voice was dark and deep, slightly contorted from the strange way he had to bend his neck in order to hold his violin properly.

John ceased stashing away the groceries and went into the living room, dropping into his favorite armchair and huffing pleasantly at the general comfortableness of being in a warm home, in his comfy chair, with his best friend and master violinist on a snowy Christmas eve. Life just could be that perfect sometimes.

"Schubert?" it was a wild guess. John really did not know anything about classical music and wouldn't have been able to tell a piece by Schubert from a piece by Puccini (two of the few composers he knew, because Sherlock liked to play them). He was rewarded, accordingly, with a disdainful expression on his friends pale face as the beautiful melody turned into the familiar sound of Schuberts "Schwanengesang" fluidly.

John gave Sherlock his defensive _All-right-I-don't-know-anything-I'll-shut-up_-look. As soon as "Schwanengesang" turned into mockingly sentimental version of "Deck the halls" John knew the serious part of the concerto was over. He went into the kitchen and tried to find some space on the counter between two large preserving jars filled with fetuses in formic aldehyde and the huge, complex looking setup of an experiment, obviously designed to extract the essence of some questionable brown lump. The product was dripping out of a tube at the far side of the counter into an Erlenmeyer flask, smelling ghastly.

As he chopped up an onion, Sherlock dove into a medley of infamous Christmas songs, all sped up considerably and played like farcical dance tunes. This was partly in order to satisfy Mrs. Hudsons general Christmas enthusiasm (Sherlock undoubtedly knew she was listening in on his playing from downstairs). The other part, John was sure, was directed at him and intended to mock the same enthusiasm that Sherlock seemed to deem a valid flaw in Mrs. Hudsons character, while in Johns, it was an unforgivable ineptitude that deserved to be punished with sarcasm and ridicule.

Maybe he deserved it a little. They had decided, after a particularly fierce and ruthless rant on the pointlessness of celebrating the birth of a supposed child of a god neither of them really believed in on Serlocks part, not to do anything typical chistmassy. Rather to Johns disappointment, because Christmas was, after all these years, still a little magical somehow. And so he had reconsidered and decided to put up a tree anyway, however small and unobtrusive, which Sherlock had been repelled to notice. John was almost sure that if he should glance into the living room now, Sherlock would be standing right in front of this tiny tree, throwing him meaningful looks as he was musically stultifying "Jingle Bells" by pointedly emphasizing the first note of every "Jingle".

As John threw the steaks into the pan, he wondered how to find the right time to give Sherlock his gift, which not to get – of course – he had promised only days ago under oath. It was all very well, Sherlock hating holidays and such, but you couldn't forbid a man to get a present for the person who meant most to him in all the world. Not if he wanted to. And that, however astounding some people believed that to be, was Sherlock to John. He had been there when no one else had been there. He had saved John, in his own unusual and rude and unsociable way, from a loneliness that had been beginning to swallow him from the inside. He had put back excitement and joy and laughter in his life where only nightmares and emptiness had been.

John shot the insanely tall and skinny man in the living room, who was now slumping around the couch, picking the strings of his instrument randomly, a loving look. Maybe people were right, after all. John had gotten so used to people commenting on how "cute" Sherlock and him were together or what a "perfect match" they were, he had stopped listening to it, really. Over the past weeks he had heard comments on their strange humor, on the way they complimented each other when dancing, on their professional and intellectual understanding, on the frequentness with which they touched. He had even been assumed to be romantically involved with his flat mate without yet having noticed himself. Maybe they had some kind of love between them, a different kind of love. Different from what other people, normal people had. After all, Sherlock was Sherlock, and there was _nothing_ normal about that.

They shared a very pleasant dinner, quibbling over the fact that John had actually bought something special, though he had consented to ignore Christmas. Sherlock grumbled over the fact that he would have to attend his mothers annual Christmas dinner and complained on how she always kept bugging him about the fact that he still didn't have a boy- or girlfriend to bring along. With an exasperated gasp he let his fork fall on his empty plate suddenly.

"With all the intelligence at my disposal, why ever have I failed to see the obvious for so long? I could always bring _you_!" Sherlock stared at John maniacally, failing - or choosing to ignore - to see the expression of utter horror in the other mans' face.

"No, Sherlock, No. Despite what people think, we're not a couple. It's bad enough as it is, with everybody making assumptions and such…"

"Now that I think of it, she even inquired after you one time on the phone, I think." John had lost him. The detective was already in that special place in his head, where only he was granted access and where he invented and decided things all on his own, not even considering including any of the people who would later be involved in these decisions. He already saw himself in a stiff smoking, sipping cocktails with Mycroft. John shuddered.

"Marvelous. This years' dinner will be a good deal less _tedious_!" That flattered John somehow. He therefore unfortunately missed the split second that was given to him for possible interruptions. "Now that this is settled: What's for desert?"

The tone of Sherlocks voice suggested that any kind of discussion was out of the question. Already John could feel this strange thing happening that happened to him almost every time Sherlock decided something for the two of them without asking. He surrendered, letting every spark of resistance die without even putting up a fight. _Why can he do this to me? How does he do it?_ John certainly wasn't the guy to trot along with the herd without asking questions. But there was something about Sherlock that hit his weak spot and turned him into a docile follower. Submitting to his every whim felt strangely…_right_, however stupid and weak that may have sounded to anyone else. If ever addressed about that particular aspect of their relationship he wouldn't be able to explain properly. It would never make sense to anyone but him. Well, and Sherlock.

John let out a defeated sigh and dropped his head on the table with a dramatic thud. The man across the table looked vaguely amused.

They moved to the couch and gorged themselves on ice cream while Sherlock shouted angrily at the Inspector in a crap television crime show. John pondered on how nice it was, seeing his high functioning sociopath doing all these normal things like eating (For someone who had once called everything but thinking "_just transport_", he was surely enjoying that ice cream a lot). _Wait, have I just called him _my_ sociopath? Watch your thoughts, Doctor. You know he can figure them out if he chooses to. _He blamed it all on the two bottles of Pinot Grigio they had emptied over dinner (more of that obviously enjoyable kind of _transport_) and got up to open the third one anyway, even though he was starting to feel the effect of the alcohol slightly.

By the time the third bottle stood empty on the table and Sherlocks long, pale und currently somewhat sloppy fingers fidgeted with the cork of the fourth, the tv was off and John was over by the window, sorting through the rather limited selection of CDs he had brought to the flat on moving in.

"You know, we probably shouldn't." he commented, pointing vaguely into the direction of Sherlock and the bottle with a skimpy gesture.

"I dare to disagree, my dear John. We absolutely should. Tomorrows' dinner will not be able to get any worse. If we have to suffer it, we might as well destroy it for everyone else by being insufferable due to our massive hangovers." He laughed nastily and the sound of the cork plopping out of the bottle followed.

It never failed to confuse John how Sherlock could be such an obnoxious prick and still appear so amusingly endearing to John at the same time. Also, it made him grin like an idiot that he had called him "my dear John". _Where the fuck is that coming from? Get a grip, Watson._

Somewhere through the fourth bottle, John realized he was pretty damn squiffy. He could tell from the rumbling, tearful laughter and the way his words slurred on the last syllable, that Sherlock was too. _What the heck_, John decided, encouraged by the cheery atmosphere and the flippant, funky music that was playing loudly in the room. Now was the time to come forth with his present-betrayal.

"Wait a minute." He told the tall detective, who was now standing, leaning on the mantelpiece and tapping a large foot along with the beat of the music.

In the kitchen he rummaged through the shopping bags he had left there earlier noisily.

"I'm sorry. I knew we said we weren't going to, but I came across this earlier today and I just had to-" John shrugged apologetically as he handed Sherlock the box. The detective threw him a spiteful look but took the present anyway.

Inside was an old fashioned, round magnifying glass with a wood and brass handle. Sherlock stared at it wordlessly.

"I thought, since Anderson stepped on your old one last week, you needed a new one. And I accidentally came across it in the window of a small antique shop and had to think of you. It's a little aged, but more classy than the plastic one you had before. Well, I thought... I thought you might… appreciate." John gave a nervous laugh.

Sherlock traced the curve of the glass thoughtfully, still not saying anything. Then he put it back in the box, put the box on the mantelpiece and stared at John, bashfully silent, for what felt like eternity.

_Well, I knew this would be awkward_. Sherlock wasn't very good at receiving presents. John had found that out on Sherlocks first birthday after moving in with him.

"God, I love this song!" John had never thought that this song would ever get him out of an awkward situation rather than in, but as soon as the first notes of Princes' _'Sexy Motherfucker_' hit the room, he jumped thankfully. This song had managed to shoot right into his body and take control of his legs every time since he had first heard it.

Sherlock kept leaning by the mantelpiece, watching his friend in a mixture of bewilderment and amusement as he started to dance casually to the enticing beat. John knew he wasn't the best of dancers (quite passionate and eager, though. He has that going for him.), but there were some songs he just _felt_. _Good lord, I'd never done that if I were sober. I will never live it down, _he thought with a glance at his friend, who was still watching with a strange, wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

John was just about to apologize for making a fool out of himself like this (and blame it on the delicious Pinot Grigio, _obviously_) when to his utter surprise and absolute delight, Sherlock suddenly moved his hands over his head and started to dance too.

It was quite silly, really, two grown men dancing skittishly around their living room like this. If people could see them, John deliberated, people would _definitely_ get the wrong idea. Or would they? He thought about that night in the club a few months ago, about how well Sherlocks body had worked with his while moving to the beat. Maybe there was something true about what people said about them.

Between songs, John gulped down another glass of the wine, not wanting this fun to end. It was the happiest he had felt in weeks. As "_Canned Heat_" by Jamiroquai started, he cried out in delight. They danced through that one, too. Sherlock was, as John had already found out, quite the graceful dancer. Even plastered as he was, his rhythmical shaking of hips and rocking of the upper body looked elegant and facile. His eyes were closed, as though completely lost in the music, and he still managed to clutch his wine glas with one hand, swaying and turning with it, without ever spilling one drop.

The next song they danced was Rod Stewards "_do ya think I'm sexy_". John seriously started to question his sanity at that. What sick part of his subconscious had made him choose exactly this CD? He had, as he remembered now, compiled it some years ago for his girl friend. It was full of sexy dance tunes. The seduction tactic had surely worked on _her_, he remembered flustered.

Sherlock for once, didn't seem to notice any of his doubtful thoughts and was currently getting totally lost in the subtle, quick paced eroticism of the song, eyes closed. It left John staring in awe. The memory of Sherlocks hot breath on his neck came back to him and, _fuck it_, maybe it was the wine, but the man looked _good _out of his uptight, nonchalant comfort zone. The second verse found them dancing closely together, actually singing along loudly and whole heartedly without any regard as to whether Mrs. Hudson might hear them. It was equally embarrassing, cathartic and _hot_.

_Good lord, the things the poor woman would assume to be happening here._ John laughed out loud at that.

Their ecstatic drunken dance escapade found a sudden end, as the song ended. They were standing quite close, staring at each other for a moment, the question of the song somehow hanging in the air silently, looming between them like a vulture above his prey. _Do you think I'm sexy?_

And then the next song (Phil Collins – Against all Odds) started and the moment was ruined. John closed his eyes with an expression of pure pain on his face.

"Yeah, I made that CD to get a girl into bed. I'm not proud of the fact that I can tell you it actually worked."

Sherlock bend forward, cringing and huffing with laughter. His dark curls brushed Johns cheeks as he rested his forehead on Johns shoulder for a moment, shaken by violent fits. _His hair smells like strawberry_, John noticed vaguely. Somehow it made him feel warm in his stomach. Or maybe it was the alcohol.

Sherlock was still chuckling as he raised his head and stepped back. Awkward closeness and silence returned.

"Maybe we should call it a night." John said, faking a yawn. _Wait, why the hell did I do that? Coward,_ _you don't even want to leave for your cold, lonely room now_, he told himself bitterly.

"Probably right." Sherlock confirmed. His gaze, even though glazed over with the effect of the alcohol, was relatively steady for someone who had downed almost two bottles of red wine alone, John noticed.

They stood in silence for a while, trying not to look each other in the eye.

"Right then." John started for the door.

"John, wait. Um, you know I'm not very good... I don't…I usually I don't…" drunken babbling mixed with the bashfulness of the socially awkward sociopath trying to say something not insulting, John realized. He tensed.

"What I'm trying to say is: tonight was…_nice_." He finished lamely. Even in his clouded mind, John understood what he was trying to say, using this trite expression. He was saying thank you. For the night, for trying to make it special even though Sherlock hadn't wanted him to, for the present. It was so sweet that it made Johns heart beat faster.

"Yeah. I agree."

"And, um… since I knew you were going to get me something - because you never seem to hold up your end of the bargain when it comes to things like these – well…" his voice stumbled over the words negligently. The tall detective staggered over to the window and took an envelope from his music stand and handed it to John with a shaky gesture.

"It's just something I came up with… what I played earlier on the violin…. You said it was nice. That's, um, good. Because – actually – well, I wrote it myself. It's… " With some effort he pulled himself together and then smiled at John, one of his real genuine smiles, and patted the smaller mans shoulder awkwardly. "Seems like I had more of that wine than I realized. I'll be off to bed." And with a last gawky pat on the shoulder he turned and tottered over to his room, closing the door behind himself with a mumbled "G'night, then."

John was left alone, Phil Collins still singing to his ex soupily through the room. He contemplated the events of the past five minutes unmoving, still staring at the door that had closed right behind Sherlock. Finally admitting to himself that nothing good could probably come from trying to wreck his alcohol flooded brain about the meaning of anything that had just happened he went to turn the music off, gulped down a whole glass of water in the kitchen and went to his bed, the envelope still lying heavy in his palm.

It was only in the dim light of his own bedroom, dressed in his pyjama pants and sitting on the bedside that he dared to look inside. It was a bunch of folded music sheets. From Sherlocks flustered rambling John had gathered one important information: That he had really and actually written that wonderful, touching piece of music himself. The one that had stirred Johns heart and moved him to tears. It had been composed somewhere in that beautiful mind palace of his.

On the top of the first paper there were letters, written in Sherlocks untidy yet energetic hand. They said: _Johns' serenade._ It caused a pleasant lump to form in his throat.

Later that night, as John lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling unable to sleep, he thought of all the things people noticed about them. And he had to admit to himself that tonight he had noticed too. Noticed the intimate, comfortable way of their relationship, the way they were both able to be themselves around each other. The way something about them was just _right_. _A different kind of love_, he had thought earlier. Not romantic, not physical, but _different_.

After long moments of pondering he came to an unsettling yet somehow enticing conclusion: Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't that different after all. Maybe it was just what it was. Maybe John really needed to investigate, deduce, conclude. And maybe he would find that _different_ would not exclude anything he had believed impossible before.


End file.
